


Hazed

by Disembowel-me (Sarunkoku)



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Amputation, Captivity, Choking, Drug Use, Drugging, Ear tonguing???, Marijuana, Stockholm Syndrome, dubcon, general uncomfortable touching of body parts that aren't usually felt up, i use breast as a descriptor but its in a gender neutral way i just love me some meaty tiddy, lawrence loves your anatomy, rib fingering i guess, stoned lawrence is hot and nobody can take him away from me, this is such a hot mess of self indulgence, weird body worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-18 23:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16129091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarunkoku/pseuds/Disembowel-me
Summary: Lawrence's nights off were always a hit or miss for you.Tonight was asmashingsuccess.Highly inspired by Graphophobic's How To Be A House Plant and my own love of grassAccompanying track: "Breathe" - Of Verona ; "Monday Afternoon" - Marika Hackman ; "Ice Age" - How To Destroy Angels, deadmau5 ; "Nobody Is Ever Going To Want Me" - Giles Corey





	Hazed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Graphophobic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graphophobic/gifts).



It was nighttime. The light outside was gone already. It had been, for at least an hour.

The apartment was a little warm; the already musty air made even headier by Lawrence's love of drugs. Some were sweet smelling and sickly floral, some were sour and vinegary, some bitter and sharp. You didn't know what they were. He never told you, and you never asked. Most of them tasted horrible.

Usually, he'd mix powders made of dried plant parts into water to make a thick paste, or steep them in boiling water, or sometimes chew on fresh leaves. Occasionally, he would smoke little balls of amber-colored resin. Everything was homemade, almost everything homegrown. He was pretty good at keeping the important plants alive and healthy. Only when they had died and he hadn't acquired a new one, none of them were in harvest, or he wanted something particularly finicky to grow did he buy from a dealer. All were fairly rare occurrences.

He didn't look like a drug addict, not really. He was never desperate in a junkie way; you never saw him express withdrawal symptoms. Then again, he was always a little “off,” nervous and fidgety, and you'd never seen him run dry, either. He was fit and healthy, aside from the dark circles permanently underlining his eyes and the nervous air always surrounding him. He wasn't elegant by any stretch of the word, but something about the way he carried himself was endearing. Alluring, even. The honesty of which he felt his emotions, yet paradoxically ever mysterious. Never putting those feelings into words or giving any coherent explanation, rarely speaking of his past in more than passing, vague comments.

He reminded you more of a witch or old-age healer than a druggie. Bundles of flowers, roots, leaves, and bulbs of all different shapes and colors hung from the ceiling to dry. The mortar and pestle and grinders on his counters. Multiple teapots and kettles; ceramic, metal, electric. Odd trinkets and animal bones tucked away inside a pot, under the bed, on the bookshelf. The way he would "drift," as he called it, drugging himself into a semi-conscious, unconscious stupor in an attempt to find the “river.” The sheer number of plants he managed to fit inside the tiny apartment and take care of. The glass and plastic containers of drugs littering the apartment, stored in cabinets, cupboards, drawers, and the fridge. Many looked exactly the same and you had no idea how he hadn't made a disastrous mistake confusing one for another yet.

(At least, that's what you could think on a good day; when he was kind to you. On bad days your thoughts about him were much less kind).

The one he was partaking in tonight; however, you could readily identify.

The bong bubbled softly and the embers burned with the faintest crackle. You watched it fill with thick, milky smoke. His gaze flitted to the bowl, inhaling for a moment longer before he removed it, glass quietly clinking against glass. The smoke swirled upward as he cleared the bong with more bubbling and a gentle sucking sound, then pulled his lips away from the mouthpiece. Face upturned, eyes closed, holding it in.

You studied him. His pink, dry lips pressed together. His distant, serene expression. Disheveled bangs draping against his face, caressing his stubbled cheek, ponytail slung over his shoulder. The way his chest puffed up and out every so slightly, lungs accommodating as much of the intoxicating smoke as they could. A thick cloud blew coolly from his mouth, a faint bit trailing from his nostrils. His chest and shoulders relaxed. He blinked slowly, gazing down at the fragile glass in his hand. Then to you. The pale blue of his eyes was striking anyway, but the redness already staining his whites enhanced the color to something greener, grayer, brighter; nearly ethereal. 

He gave you a soft smile. "Um," he started shyly, "Do you want some?"

Most of the time, you rejected his drugs. You lost too much of those first few months with him to the tea-induced haze. You needed them at the time, of course, you don't think you would've survived without them, but it was still horrifying. You remember little, only snippets of the horrific pain, writhing on your back. Sobbing into him, soaking his pillows with tears. The bitter taste of his tea. The wretched ache that permeated you always. Itchy, painful heat threatening your cinched wounds and butchered bones.

Waking up in the middle of it. The blinding, dizzying pain. A horrific grinding sound. The blurred sea of red in front of you. The gut-churning realization that the bloodied chunk of meat lying in front of you was your severed arm; that the sound you were hearing was him sawing through your bones. Panicking. Trashing. Searing hot agony shooting through you. Hearing a distant, “O-oh, no, you can’t wake up yet. I’m not done yet.” His face, smiling, flushed. More tea.

You still had nightmares.

You would fight sometimes, but usually you were complacent, welcoming the relief when it was given to you. He kept you wrapped in blankets to keep you contained and from hurting yourself. He cleaned and replaced your bandages, appraised your stitches, taking note of the bruising and bleeding and crusting, watching your incisions slowly progress from angry cuts to crusted-over lines to thick, raised scars. When the stitches on your right arm turned hot and oozing and painful to touch, he smeared a thick oily paste over it that smelled so strongly it made your eyes water and nose burn. It stung. He applied it for a week until the threat of necrosis was surely gone.

Tonight; however, you smiled back and nodded.

This one was familiar. This one wasn’t scary.

He scooted closer to you, where you had been propped up on pillows and leaned against the wall on his bed. He set the bong down between his legs and lifted his lighter. It had a wooden case, and twine wrapped around it. He unwrapped a bit of the twine and lit the end of it, the little flame dancing precariously an inch above where the string was pinched between his fingers. “It's, um, a hemp wick. So you don’t inhale any butane,” he explained, taking hold of the bong and holding it to your lips, then pressed the flame down to the herb. “Suck.” 

You shivered. He was so close. You could almost feel his gentle breath, the tickle of his stray hairs. You breathed in, water bubbling, pulling the flame down to light the green, then pulled just a little harder to spread the cherry-red crackling deep within the herb. As you pulled, the chamber filled with smoke, up into your mouth, the sweet, musky, almost piney aroma wafting in the air. The more you breathed in, the cloudier the chamber became, the more the hot, dry smoke snaked down your throat, and you looked to him quickly. 

His eyebrows shot up and he pulled out the bowl. “Too- Too much?”

You kept sucking in, chest tightening, eyes watering. There was still some left but you couldn’t fit anything more into your lungs. You pulled away, suppressing the urge to cough, but your diaphragm spasmed and you lost control. Puffs of smoke shot from your mouth as you coughed painfully, and you would’ve fallen on your face from the momentum, maybe even off the bed, if it weren’t for him catching you. 

“Oh, it- a-are you okay?” His hands were shaking ever so slightly on your shoulder. He rubbed your back tenderly as you coughed, and wiped the drool that built up at the corner of your mouth.

It was humiliating at first, it really was. He had to do _everything_ for you. Help you do everything. Help you eat, drink, use the bathroom, clean you, dress you, move you. You could attempt to crawl around on the pathetic little stubs that were the remnants of your limbs, but that would’ve been even more humiliating. And horribly painful. So little of them were left. He had taken so much from you.

And so it was better to not think of it. Better to accept the drugs that you liked, better to forget about how you came to be here and what he did to you, and instead think about him in the present. To think of yourself in the present. To try not to cry when you saw the pitiful atrophied limbs ending abruptly in the middle of where your thighs and biceps should be.

The slight numbness in your brain started to roll in. Lawrence had already cleared what smoke was left inside and was now taking another hit. He offered it to you. It bubbled. You both were careful to have you take a smaller hit this time. You were able to hold it in, feeling lightheaded after a few moments, but you weren't sure if it was from the marijuana or from holding your breath.

You looked at him and emptied your lungs. You both watched the cloud dissipate, and he smiled. “Better?” You nodded. He passed it between both of you until all the green in the bowl became ash. He set the bong down on the table full of ferns, flowers, and ‘medicinal’ plants, then scooted back next to you. Pulling your body in close against him. Your face felt full and heavy. He nuzzled you, wrapping your hair around his fingers in loose curls. Combing through it. Eyes closed, lazily opened, savoring every bit of touch. He traced shapes over the faint scars he’d carved into you over the months, fingering the raised keloids that tied close the nubs of your legs.

They itched. You ignored it and looked up to survey the room. Not that you needed to, you’d memorized it from the countless, mind-numbingly boring hours you spent alone here while Lawrence was away. You knew approximately how many he had, what kinds, which ones he would take care of, which he would prune and which he would let wither. The infant buds slowly blooming into leaves or flowers. Vines crawling up the wall, teasing along the cracks in the paint. Petals falling one by one until the stalk is bare.

You had grown to hate his plants. All you could do was look or sleep. Sometimes you almost wished he had drugged you more often.

He had asked you one day what your favorite flower was. He spoke to you like a person, looked you in the eye, and asked you. It was rare of him to do that. To truly acknowledge _you_ , that you were a person and that you had your own needs and wants and likes. 

Even rarer, you answered back verbally. “Forget-me-nots.” Your voice was frail and rough. 

He blushed a little and turned his face down, bangs falling to cover his eyes. “R-really?” His fingers on his lap twitched. “I like them too… They symbolize remembrance after death, did you know that?” You could see him smile slightly. “They grow and spread so easily, too. Some…” There it went. He stopped talking to you as another human being. Mumbling to you just as he did to himself when he was alone. Just as he did to his plants when he tended them. You were just another part of his little urban forest. “Some people hate them. Consider them weeds. If you plant them outside, they self-seed freely.” He looked at you. “Once you have them, you'll have them forever.” His smile grew wider. “Kind of like you.”

A couple days later, he came home after work, bashfully entering the door with a bag of groceries and a little bushy plant in a flimsy plastic pot, delicate blue flowers bobbing in the air when he set them down to lock the door. You stared, cheeks heating. He… actually got you something. He had actually listened to you. And remembered what you said. 

Whatever Lawrence thought love was, that was what he felt for you. Fervently.

You were sure he loved you, in his own twisted, fucked up way. You were certain that he did. Even though you had only heard him utter those words twice. Both times he thought you were asleep. It had been quiet and shy and hesitant, like he was afraid of what would happen if he said it out loud; if you heard him. Sometimes, you wondered if he whispered it to your sleeping body in the light of the dawn in between the time it took you to fall asleep against his warm strong body and for him to succumb to exhaustion, or if he had feverishly chanted those words above you after he first chose to keep you with him, while your body was a healing wrecked mess and your mind trapped in a haze of analgesics and antiseptics and amnesics. How many times? How long it would be- if he ever did- before he would talk to you like a person again and not a plant and actually _tell_ you?

Lawrence sighed contentedly against you, bringing you back to the present. Your mind was foggy and disconnected from your body. Your slow breath synced with his. Four lungs working in unison, separated by cages of meat and bone. He leaned into you. It was quiet. The humidifier hummed. The evening ambiance of the city drifted through his walls. 

“I-” His voice broke the silence. “I’m so glad I met you.” He sounded wistful. “That our threads crossed, and that I didn’t let yours go. I didn’t think… Th-that anyone…” His voice trailed off. He had told you before. You knew he was lonely. He was strange. That people didn’t understand. You didn’t understand either, not really, but you stayed quiet. You were content right now. It was easy not to care when you were high. Everything felt more like a dream. More disconnected, less painful. 

You were more aware of the contact of your bodies like this. More aware of all the scents mixing in the apartment. Of his breath, gentle on your neck. His hair on your skin. The dull ache of healing wounds. The pads of his fingers hovering over them. The drowsy calmness of it all.

Your body rose and fell rhythmically along with his breath, your oversized shirt the only thing separating your skin from his bare pecs. He was very strong due to the nature of his job. It was scary to be sure, especially at first when you didn’t know him or what he would do. He had the kind of lean musculature that runners or swimmers have. Not bulky by any means, but visibly fit and powerful. Despite that, he always wore baggy, shapeless clothes. You weren't sure if it was because it was because he was simply more comfortable in clothing like that, or if he was trying to hide his body. 

Rarely did he get nude in your presence. Despite the fact that he made you feel like an object in all other aspects, despite that you spent half of the time wearing only a shirt of his that was far too big for you, and the other half completely naked when he couldn't be bothered to dress you or when the AC had broken over the summer, he had only been fully nude in front of you a handful of times. He would go without a shirt perhaps if he was particularly comfortable, tired, or frustrated enough not to care. Pants were almost never absent, especially since he slept in them. Only when it was far too hot out, and once when a pot of water on the stove was boiling over in the middle of him changing. In the bathroom, of course. Changing in front of you was far too embarrassing.

And without his boxers… It was always an accident. He would blush and exude shame. Once, you'd woke up while he was in the shower. You were squirming experimentally atop the bed, and he didn't notice when he came from the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. You continued to wiggle your body in minor movements until you lurched forward on accident, no arms to catch yourself with, and you fell to the floor with a loud thump. 

Lawrence had nearly jumped right into the air and his towel dropped to the floor as quickly as you did. He stared in shock for a moment, mouth hanging open and eyes wide, and a furious blush spread across his face. “Uh- uh-hm, I-” he squeaked. You had fallen before, he could see you were okay. And you could see him in all of his uncovered glory. He shot down to grab his towel and whipped away from you, avoiding your gaze for the rest of the day, blushing when you caught his eye.

It was strange. You were something between a person and a plant. You weren’t a normal person, people didn’t _understand_. You calmed him. He was comfortable around you. But not too comfortable. You were still a person. All of his interpersonal interactions must’ve been hell before you if this was how he treated the ones he actually liked.

Whenever he would fuck you, it was with clothes on. He'd pull his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free himself. Often, he was bare-chested because, usually, it was in the early dusk or dawn, when you were both hazy from sleep and the light outside was just as much of a haze, an eerie transition, turning the apartment into a liminal space between your old life and new, where nothing felt quite real and everything felt like a dream right before it floats from your conscious mind.

His hand trailed up to your throat and you swallowed nervously. His fingers stretched all the way around. He could easily choke you with just the one hand if he wanted to. His fingers gently pushed up into the soft flesh. Then he pressed down with all his fingers, feeling around your neck. 

“I remember in elementary school, in P.E., they taught us how to take our pulse.” Lawrence’s voice was breathy and calm, his breathing just as relaxed. His thumb and forefinger pinched around the tissues that made up your esophagus and voice box. “They said not to use our thumb. You were supposed to use your middle finger instead; it’s more sensitive.” Fingers dug in and felt the soft glandular lumps of tissue buried deep in your neck. Pushing and shifting around the cartilaginous structures, making them grate softly against each other. It was uncomfortable, but you stayed still. “Said… You’d feel your own pulse in your thumb. But isn’t that what we were trying to do? It never made any sense to me.”

He fingered his way down your throat, manipulating the flesh as if he were massaging it. He reached the end of your larynx and your airway was no longer protected from his touch. A sudden feeling of not being able to breathe, but… air was still coming in and out of your throat unobstructed. He was pinching down on your arteries, restricting the blood flow instead. You panicked and jerked, but his grip only tightened and dug in further. It hurt, but the suffocation induced a euphoric high, one that grew to be almost sensitive in nature as he kneaded into you. 

Several moments passed by. You thrashed and whimpered, his touch growing more painful by the second, but his hand wrapped around your neck above your sternum where your collar bones met. The pressure grew, and along with it, your lightheadedness. Frantically, you craned your neck to look at him, eyes pricked by tears not from fear but from the pressure, but his gaze was cool. You could feel your face turning red. His seemed to be, too. Then he smiled, looking down at you with an unmistakable expression. The grip hardened. Something about the spot that he was pressing on in the middle of your throat made your throat spasm over and over and made you need to cough and it _hurt_.

“You… look really good like this,” he mumbled. 

Real tears; desperate, scared tears, stung your eyes. Underneath you, you felt something. Despite your head being foggy from the weed and suffocation, you could tell what it was. You shifted, so badly wanting to get away from his vice-like hands, but you only succeeded in rubbing against his already half-hard boner. His face flushed and he let out a soft sigh, then let go. 

The blood rushed back quickly into your head and you were able to fully cough, a dull headache setting in near your temples. You were pushed down onto the bed and straddled, and before you could react, Lawrence grabbed your throat again. You panicked and opened your mouth to plead, but instead of choking you, he felt for your pulse. He smiled wider.

”It’s beating so fast. I did that. I made it do that.” He leaned in close, placing his other hand over your heart. “Nestled in between your lungs… Protected by your rib cage, but… it’s still so easy to get to. So easy to manipulate.” His hand swept above your shirt and down between your legs. His eyes flitted to where his hand was and he smiled shyly, blushing even more. It seemed to please him that you- or your body, anyway- was also getting aroused for him.

His erection was obvious through his sweatpants, and he palmed it through the thin cloth, breath audibly shaking, then freed himself. His cock was pretty and pink, smooth and long, and very hard. He looked back up and your eyes locked, staring at each other in the eye, before Lawrence quickly averted his gaze and, grabbing your waist, rubbed himself against you. He licked his fingers, tongue wrapping around each slender digit’s pronounced knuckle; then, clearly not satisfied, pushed them both in between his lips. He pulled them back and forth to wet them while rolling his hips against you again. Removing them with a light ‘pop’ and a string of saliva, he either didn’t realize how lewd the action was, or didn’t care.

He massaged your entrance for a moment with his moistened fingers before pushing them both in at once. It already felt so good, your body must more sensitive while high, you reasoned, and he began working the insides of you, strength present even in his fingers. His other hand covered your mouth and his fingers dug into the inside of you harder. The pressure built in pleasure and pain and you mewled into his hand, squirming under him.

He swallowed thickly and breathed out of his mouth. Pulling his slippery fingers out of you, he slicked his hand along his shaft a couple times as he lined himself up, then swiftly pushed himself inside. Again, you cried out into his palm, a wanton whine highlighting just how needy you were like this. You felt his hips shudder in reply. 

”You’re… So… _Warm _…” He huffed. He repeated himself nearly every time he did this. How warm you were. How soft. How _alive_. His fingers dug into your hips and he pulled you against him hard, twisting your lower body to the side. “Hngg-ah-” He thrust against your sensitive insides slowly, his hot breath against your neck. He smelled of pot, some kind of herbal perfumed rub that he applied to his chest before he smoked anything, and that stomach-tightening sickly scent of rot and decay that always followed him. He flipped you over completely and thrust again, pelvis caressing the curve of your ass. One arm curled around your left arm stump, the other on your waist. Since there was no way to keep yourself from shifting around on the sheet, he had to hold you in place himself. __

____

He prodded your hip bone, following its curve up to your spine, feeling with his fingers up, up, fingering the vertebrae in your lower back. Examining the way each one protruded from your skin, working over the thickened scar over the vertebrae in your neck. You had lost count of how many times he cut into you there. His nimble fingers explored the dip on either side of the spine, then the muscles lining your spine. “Strong and tense… Taut. Like a string through a puppet…” He mused and thrust slow. 

____

You knew he wasn’t talking to you, not really. It was the same tone he used when he talked to his plants. 

____

Fingers ghosted back down along your bare skin. Back down your spine, fingering the bones along the way, down through the curve of your pelvis, down between your legs and the soft part of your inner thigh where the joints meet. Petting. Poking. Feeling. Groping. Getting to know every piece of you.

____

His hand lingered between your legs and cupped your sensitive flesh. You let out a quiet, breathy sound, pleasure lighting up your nerves. “You… You’re so quiet…” He breathed against you, with small, controlled thrusts, hitting you in just the place. You shuddered under him. “But so responsive…” His soft lips grazed your neck. Gentle fingers worked you, light and teasing, sending shivers up and down your spine and pelvis, clouding your even more head. “Th-the way you move- around me-” He stuttered. “It- you feel so _good_. I-It’s never been like this, not- not before y-you…”

____

You weren’t sure Lawrence was doing sex properly before if he was marveling at the way your warmth or the way you moved. You weren’t sure if he was doing it properly now. If there was a proper way. At least he seemed to be enjoying himself.

____

His hand traveled back up to your stomach, caressing the slight pouch that held your soft viscera, pushing and feeling it, poking into the skin and layer of fat that protected them. “You’re so…” He pressed his hand against you, “Soft. So alive.” He pushed up under your sternum as if feeling for your diaphragm. Then up, laid flat against your chest. Against your heart, feeling it beat. “Everything working together… So smoothly. So in sync. It’s incredible. You’re incredible.” 

____

He pumped again, probing deep inside of you, groping your breast. His fingers ran over your nipple, softly at first, then squeezing the tissue firmly. You whimpered. He rolled it in between his fingers, feeling the softness, the way it wrinkled and hardened under him. “You’d be so warm inside…” 

____

In… inside? He was already inside… 

____

He always murmured off-kilter things. Creepy things. He didn’t have to be fucking you, but it happened more often when he was. Even after all this time, it still never failed to make your skin crawl.

____

His hand moved down your chest, his slender fingers pressing uncomfortably hard that it almost tickled. Fingering your ribs through your skin, as if trying to memorize the shape of every single one. “The curve,” he whined, “Elegant… _Hnn_ \- Such an- an elegant curve…” He traced shapes between them, up your sternum then back down again, hooking his fingers under your false ribs, testing its give by gently bending and pressing. 

____

You writhed under him, the light pressure on the sensitive area making it feel like your ribs were bruised whenever he touched you. His hands were big and strong, calloused only around the edges near his fingernails. The rest was surprisingly soft, and he knew how to be gentle with them. No matter how much you would squirm, he was always able to keep you relatively in place, relatively gently, like a net surrounding you. He’d give a little, but wouldn’t let go.

____

He panted sweetly in your ear, his moans soft and little and pitched-up at the end. “S-so beautiful,” he groaned. The warm wetness of his mouth enveloped your ear. Soft, slick muscle pulsing with warmth traced down the helix, exploring every fold, nuance, and tiny bump of cartilage and skin. The bumps of his tongue were pronounced against your burning flush; you could feel the way it flexed and pressed when it moved inside to the conch, so hot and messy. It pushed even further in and you squealed, but he didn’t stop, instead grabbing your jaw and keeping it still, exploring the cavity and pressing himself even farther, as far as he could reach.

____

He moaned. Drool slowly dripped down inside your ear. You shuddered. He panted and licked and wrapped his lips around your ear and suckled, the wet noises muffled but still worming its way deep into your brain. He exhaled, shaky and steamed through his nostrils, nose nestled into your hair against the little dip right above your ear. A thin string of saliva connected the two of you for just a moment when he finally pulled away, lips hovering next to your ear. “You’re so _beautiful_ ,” he repeated. “So… S-so accepting. So… malleable. I-I, I can’t believe…” Teeth bit your earlobe just hard enough to hurt, tugging, nibbling, and he whimpered as he thrust deeply. You whimpered, too. 

____

His sweet noises made your insides clench up and he whined loud and long as a result, earlobe falling out of his mouth and his head buried itself into your neck against your shoulder. “Aa-ahng… _Hng_ -!” His teeth found the flesh of your shoulder between them and he clenched down softly. He was tense and shaking, teeth nearly chattering against your skin, each thrust getting faster, yet almost hesitant as though his own body’s reactions made him nervous. 

____

He grabbed your hips with both hands and angled you up further so he could pound deeper inside of you. His movements weren’t as controlled now, panting and grunting and crying out against you. The lewd moist noise of where your body met his seemed so loud, churning up the inside of you. Your vision went white when he slammed inside of you, only gaining reprieve for a moment before he thrust himself back in, deeper and deeper. His entire body trembled. Embarrassing grunts escaped your mouth each time, then you actually moaned. It felt like he was inside further than he should’ve been, should’ve been able to, like he was battering the organs inside of your abdomen, and it made you _moan_.

____

He groaned in return. “Y-you- You’re-” he gasped. “Gonna make m-me-” He couldn’t finish his sentences without panting in between every few words. “I-I- I’m-”

____

__A guttural sound rattled from his throat as he came. Spreading his warmth all throughout you, filling you up with him. He kept moving, though much slower, moaning hard and deep into your shoulder. You felt something cold and wet and realized he was crying. The sound your bodies were making together was even wetter and lewder now, and you could feel it spilling out of you onto his sheets. “So good,” he groaned into you again. He was shaking hard, breathing even harder. “You feel-” he kept panting, “-so good.” Like he was moving in slow motion, his hips lost their momentum gradually, and eventually stopped completely. Laying on top you. His heart racing against your back. Heavy breath against your neck._ _

____

__Slowly, he pushed himself up, though still inside you, and ran his hand down your trembling spine. Panting softly above you. You still hadn’t gotten off. You didn’t have hope he would help you._ _

____

Eventually, he slid out of you and turned you over to look at you. Maybe it was arousal clouding your vision, but he was beautiful. His delicate plump lips were turned up in a relaxed smile. Watery blue eyes, tinged with red, shimmered with tears. The curve of his jaw, lightly stubbled since shaving yesterday. His fine, blonde hair disheveled, shining in the dim light of his lamps, ponytail messy and loose. The pink flush that dusted his face, neck, and bare chest. Toned muscles rippling under his skin. Your eyes wandered down, his chest, his waist, his hips, his-

____

He leaned down and pressed his face against yours, running his fingers through your hair. Your face grew hot. Your groin tingled. His lips brushed against you in what was maybe a kiss, then sat up and grabbed for a tissue from the table. He mumbled something about ‘mess’ and wiped himself off, then moved to clean you, too. He hesitated, lingering between your thighs. Then he leaned down on his knees and elbows and scooted closer. The look in his eye was still lustful, still curious, fixated on your tender parts that ached to be touched. 

____

It was a look of… hunger. You squirmed under the intent gaze, torn between your mind’s humiliation and your body’s desire for stimulation.

____

You didn’t have to wait long. His mouth hovered over the meat of your thigh, then lowered to lick his cum off of you. You jumped, shocked at both the sensation and that he, the timid, awkward one who wouldn’t even let his own body be seen, would do this. His tongue burning against your flush skin. He glanced up at you and you almost moaned. His gorgeous eyes were lidded heavy with lust, a hot blush coloring his cheeks, and the white of his own seed stained the corner of his already irresistible lips. He absentmindedly licked it clean, then turned his gaze back in between your legs. He dragged his tongue over you, eliciting a shiver and quiet whine from you. 

____

You had no idea what dictated when his actions would be restricted by anxiety and uncertainty, or when it would all wash away in the face of curiosity. Or desire. Or loss of control.

____

Right now, though, with his hot molten tongue laving over your quivering, wet core… you couldn’t care less.

____


End file.
